


Monday, You Can Fall Apart (It's Friday, I'm in Love)

by BatsAreFluffy



Category: DC Extended Universe
Genre: Because it will hurt more, Bruce Wayne Has Mental Health Issues, Bruce Wayne Whump, Canonical Character Death, Cut your heart out with a spoon, Doing too much too soon, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, From Bruce's past, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Injured bruce wayne, M/M, Take your doctor's advice, The art of crashing, Vomiting, based on the author's own experiences, brief mentions of illness, damn it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:48:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25679146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BatsAreFluffy/pseuds/BatsAreFluffy
Summary: Clark sighed, and reached over for Bruce’s hand. The skin was still clammy to touch. He rubbed the fingers gently. “You’ve not had a good month, have you?” he said quietly.Bruce sighed. “Apparently not.” He leaned back against his pillows, eyes at half-mast.Or - Love comes in many forms, and sometimes it's best shown by being there, and picking up the pieces, handing them back in a basket, with the the threat of apple pie.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 10
Kudos: 104
Collections: Fifth DCEU Fanworks Exchange





	1. Part 1: Thursday (I don’t care about you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Panny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Panny/gifts).



> Author’s Note: I was having a hard time at the beginning deciding on what to write. Because, Panny, you gave me the golden ticket of prompts – hurt comfort with Bruce being the target practice. I crave this tag like I crave chocolate raisins – I eat them so fast because I want to savour them, and then they are GONE!! So, I had three or four plots competing. And as you do, to avoid thinking about writing, I started scrolling tumblr. I found an old song that I hadn’t heard in years... years and years... and it was a perfect starting point. So, I tried to bounce an idea off from the song, and slipped it in. And then Bruce had to have his way with the stories, so while the days aren't in order, the events are. It's not like Bruce does anything in a straight line.
> 
> But thanks to The Cure, this Friday Bruce is in Love.

Part 1: Thursday (I don’t care about you)

_Dressed up to the eyes_

_It's a wonderful surprise_

_To see your shoes and your spirits rise_

“Thank you, Mr. Wayne, for those lovely words. Everyone, please enjoy yourselves, and the delightful music of the Gotham Orchestral Society.”

Clark, pad of paper, and glasses firmly in place, watched as Bruce meandered his way down the stage, flashing that smile at men and women alike. The light just sparkled off the grey strands at his temples. Clark wondered idly if he put something in it to catch the light even more tonight. It was an important anniversary for the Martha Wayne Foundation. 40 years of work, of striving to help those in Gotham than desperately needed it. Bruce had attended nearly every one of the galas. He’d missed one as a toddler, and another when he was abroad training. Alfred said he missed another one with Dick, but Bruce maintained that being in the building counted. He gave his speech. Alfred, of course, mentioned that having no recollection of the night due to heavy painkillers did not count as ‘attending’.

Either way, Clark was there for two reasons – one, to get sound bites for the Daily Planet. Perry had been gruff, and awkward when he’d come back, despite the documents, and Ma telling everyone within phoning distance that there had been a ‘terrible identity mistake.’ Now, he’d managed to get assigned to every piece he could with Gotham. Not quite official Gotham correspondent – that title was still held by a man named McClain, whom Clark had never met – but he was certainly becoming a regular face at these events.

“Brucie!” a loud voice thundered from half way across the dance floor. A large man, with a frankly hideous taste in suits, walked over to the billionaire. Something in yellow sequins hung off his arm. Clark hoped she was getting hazard pay for that eyesore of a dress.

“Bradley!” Bruce answered, turning a stunning smile to the larger man. “How have you been? Eaten anymore personal trainers?”

Bradley Millerson, Clark remembered. Personal fitness tycoon, ran a number of health oriented businesses, all feeding into each other. You couldn’t work out at his clubs without his approved protein shakes, and dressed in his high performance spandex. Gotham nouveau riche, and hell to work for. He would chew up personal managers every few months, and spit them back into the world looking like road kill. 

Shaking his head, Clark turned and caught another socialite’s eye. “Clark Kent, Daily Planet....”

* * *

He’d just finished getting her quote – _“oh, those poor orphans, living in boxes, I just can’t stand the thought”_ – and was trying so hard not to eyeroll that statement when he heard more laughter coming from Millerson.

“You ever wanna get back into the game, Brucie, you call me up. I’ve got people who can beat you back into your thirties.”

For one split second, Bruce’s expression turned. Clark covered a snort with a quickly grabbed glass of champagne. Beat him in his thirties – Bruce could probably beat Millerson back into wishing he was still in grade school. Then the playboy was back, tossing some witty remark back. Yellow dress tittered, and Millerson made his goodbyes –

\-- with a hearty slap on the shoulder blade, that sent the smaller man stumbling a few steps.

Bruce’s face went sheet white in an instant. He breathing stuttered, every as he played off the hit with charm and stupidity. After a moment, Bruce ducked out of the group, heading out for some air on the veranda.

Clark wove through the crowds quickly, stumbling a few times only to keep people from noticing how quickly he was moving. He could hear Bruce’s elevated heart rate, racing despite his attempt to relax. When he came out on the open balcony, he watched Bruce back into the hidden side of the wall, behind the wide open doors. He just managed to get to him before his knees gave out, sliding his back down.

“Bruce?” Clark spoke quietly. “Bruce, what happened?”

Bruce shook his head, eyes squeezed shut.”I – I need a – need a minute.”

Clark took a quick look behind them; no one was outside with them. He dropped his glasses and switched his vision to x-ray. No head injuries, nothing in the spine, ribs still healing from five weeks ago. But there were a line of staples down one shoulder...

“Did he stab you?” Clark asked, horrified.

Bruce frowned. “Who – what, no, it’s fine, I’m fine – I just need a moment-“

“You’re bleeding,” Clark noticed.

A sudden thought crossed Clark’s face, and Bruce couldn’t help but wince in anticipation. “You did get hit last night!” Clark whispered angrily.

“I might have been – more injured – than what I first – first expected.” Bruce could barely catch his breath. Clark had hold of his good – ha – shoulder and was keeping him upright. He still couldn’t meet the other man’s eyes. “Alfred patched me up,” he muttered.

“Does Alfred know that you’re here?”

Bruce shrugged, and then winced when it pulled too much. “Probably.”

Clark cursed under his breath. “Call him. Get the car here, you’re leaving.”

“No.”

Clark drew his head back sharply. “Excuse me? You can’t stand up, your white shirt has a growing red patch, and you’re starting to go into shock. Call Alfred.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow, head tilted. Admittedly, he had a hard time keeping Clark in focus that way. “Don’t have my ear piece on.”

“Use the watch, then.” Clark smirked at Bruce’s pout. “Yeah, I can hear the static on it right now. Turn it on, or I whisk you out of here in costume.”

Bruce growled, but opened the line. “Alfred--”

_“I’m already outside, sir. I suspected you’d do something stupid tonight. Second receiving door.”_

“Thanks.” Bruce closed the line and sighed. “Happy?”

Clark shrugged. “Not until you get into your monster of a bed.”

Bruce tried the pout once more, with little success. “Hoping to join me?”

Clark blushed. That was getting a little too common for Bruce to ignore. “Is that – is that a yes?” he whispered coyly, looking up through his long lashes.

Clark gritted his teeth, but replied. “Yeah. It’s a yes.” At Bruce’s stunned look, he added, “If reading you a bedtime story gets you to sleep; I might even do shadow puppets if you brush your teeth.”

Bruce huffed a laugh. “Alfred bribed you,” he reasoned. “That’s why your mother-henning me.”

“Strawberry turnover pancakes tomorrow.” One of his favourites of Alfred’s recipes so far. “I’ll pull you up. Don’t faint on me.”

Bruce braced his wounded arm against his chest. “No promises.” By the time they had both slipped off the veranda and out the receiving doors, Bruce was barely conscious, being mostly carried by Clark’s strong hold.

A compact black Porsche was sitting idly, engine much quieter than it ought to have been. Alfred, dark coat, gloves and hat in place, looked like he stepped off a motion picture set. “Master Wayne,” he greeted drily. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Alright, you’ve made your point.” Bruce grimaced, and asked quietly, “Can we just go home, Alf?”

Alfred’s face softened. “Foolish boy,” he murmured, but opened up the front passenger door. Inside, the black leather seat was reclined nearly one hundred and forty degrees. Tucked in between the seats, a black medical bag was propped open, with pressure bandages and a needle half-full of morphine set aside.

Bruce nearly moaned at the sight. “cncccxncgogogoggoggogofg.”

“Care to translate that?” Clark asked, after they had settled Bruce into the seat. Alfred snorted as he applied the last layer of tape over the field bandage.

“Hardly matters, Master Clark.” One quick jab, and the morphine was efficiently delivered. “I’m sure we will hear worse when we get him out of the car.”

Bruce’s eyes had closed, body relaxing. “No fair,” he muttered. “Don’t wanna.”

Clark smiled and closed the door. “I’ll meet you at the lake house.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Did I search for half an hour for old cars that could recline their seats for a one liner? Why, yes, I did! Because, reasons. Did I leave my computer open and my 2.5 year old help finish Bruce’s moan? Yes, I did.


	2. Part 2: Tuesday, Wednesday (Heart Attack)

Part 2: Tuesday, Wednesday (Heart Attack)

* * *

_I don't care if Monday's black_

_Tuesday, Wednesday, heart attack_

* * *

**Mission report – Robots from unknown planet, Bludhaven suburbs.**

**The car ran over a robot.**

**The windshield hit another robot.**

**Structural damage sustained.**

* * *

“Yuyyy yyb t riyiy i y iyy iyyi - yiyiyi yjiyiyi yjj ooooy yyyyooyoy.”

 _“Whatever part of the car that made that sound needs oiling.”_ Superman’s drool voice sounded in his earpiece. Flying overhead, cutting off more flying robots from hitting buildings, he was easy to follow. If the Batmobile behaved.

Batman glared at the control panel – red lights were flashing again. But these creatures needed to be shut down, and the central node was less than 2 miles away. “Divert the plane to the rendezvous site, A.”

_“Already prepped, sir, eta 14 minutes.”_

Another scream sounded from the engine. “Two miles,” he muttered. He reached out, cutting off alarms and powering down systems he didn’t need right now. Several lights flashed into yellow, flickered to green. At least the chassis was still sound, unlike the last drive with Superman.

* * *

**In order of severity:**

**Both left wheels exploded.**

**The windshield shattered.**

**Steering control was lost** **.**

* * *

The front wheel was not a big deal. The car was weighted so that losing one tire would not cripple it. Driving with rear-wheel drive was fine – not optimal, but acceptable. One mile left in this condition.

The windshield blew away and took another robot with it. Designed to jettison itself in case of damage, it performed perfectly.

The left rear wheel explosion was another matter entirely. Batman cursed, yanking the steering around, trying to avoid the cement buildings on either side of him. The hydroplaning was lubricious, given the traction the remaining tires had. Batman had one ear full of reports from everyone, Superman asking if he needed something, Alfred’s quiet voice updating the eta of the Batwing. Cursing, he pulled the ejection seat lever, ready to run the last half mile.

The lever was stuck. The second lever was missing.

The building wall was not.

* * *

**The final conclusion of the experiment between Batmobile and alien robot remained in the alien’s favour.**

* * *

Batman vaguely heard his name being shouted. It was close, maybe from the trunk of the car. Maybe he’d forgotten to lower the hatch. Just a moment, he’d find that switch. Just needed a moment...

.

Someone was lifting him. They were lifting him upside down, but still, and he was pretty sure that his head was supposed to be higher than his feet. He wasn’t entirely sure who could be lifting him in armour...

.

There was smoke above him. _Above?_ And it was dark. That meant something. Something important. Someone leaned down in his vision, but the smoke was too dark, he couldn’t see their face....

.

Cold air assaulted his face and neck. That was a sensation that should not have been present – it broke through the fog and let Bruce surface for a minute. Strong hands held him down. One breath, two – he seized every muscle, pushing off the floor, moving quickly. He could feel something grabbing him, and he lashed out, connecting with something soft. But there were more hands, metal around his chest. He pulled away, trying to buck them off. They were pulling him down, no give. _Have to get up, stay down you’re dead..._ They did not move, he could not get off this bed, table, bunk... his cowl was off, he needed to evacuate immediately, Alfred, he needed to get Alfred somewhere safe. Voices were calling, drowning in the sounds, just needed to get up, why couldn’t he throw the hands off? Something cool dropped on his face, and he gasped in cool metallic air... drugged... _I’ve been drugged..._ he tried to stop his breaths, but his lungs weren’t listening... just get up his mind screamed ... just get ...

.

He was warm again. Softness under his cheek, warmth curling through his veins. His arm twitched against thick bands holding him still. There was no panic this time. No need to move, to escape, he was warm. The thick bands pushed him down at chest, legs, arms, and hips. He was warm, and swaddled, and he couldn’t bring any thoughts to bear on why he should want to move. So he didn’t.

“Bruce?”

He was so warm, Gotham winters chilled you until June, every year was worse.

“Master Bruce? Come now, time to wake up.”

Warm. Haven’t been this warm in years _. ... you’re safe ..._ a voice in his memories whispers. _...we brought you back, it’s okay, you’re safe...._

.

Soft hands were brushing his face, rubbing his uninjured shoulder. “C’mon, Bruce, time to wake up. Just for a bit. Eat something, and we’ll let you go back to sleep. Alfred’s getting worried about you.”

Bruce moaned softly as the hand retreated. Pulling his thoughts back to himself, he focused instead on getting his eyes to open. They wouldn’t listen. He was just too warm...

“He’s trying, Alfred. Maybe lower the dose of the sedatives? He seems a little too relaxed now.” Another voice, faint, replied. “Yeah, I guess it is trial and error with him, isn’t it.”

All he could do was roll his head on the pillow. Alfred hadn’t ... was he hurt again? ... he couldn’t remember... warmth and cool gas... His heart began to race again, only for the voice to come back, whispering softly to him. He was so tired, and warm, and ... safe? ... he hoped so.

.

* * *

It was dusk when Bruce could finally awaken with all his senses intact. He was in his own bed in the lake house, the windows tinted just enough to blend the sunset into a oil painting. A stack of paperbacks sat on the edge of his end table, stacked like a child’s idea of Jenga. He found himself staring at them, trying to read the titles upside down.

“See anything you like? I could read all the juicy bits.” Clark’s voice on his other side was soft and amused.

Bruce slowly turned his head to the man. Clark sat on the end of his bed, resting against the footboard. _Footboard_ , he thought. _My bed doesn’t...oh_. He was in the medical bedroom, and yes, there were the IV poles in the corner, and the heart monitor against the wall.

“How – how bad was I?” he asked, clearing his throat.

Clark sighed. “You’ve been out for three days, almost four now. Alfred might have been a little heavy handed with the sedatives, though.” He gave a huff of a laugh. “After you kicked Arthur in the head and crotch, he decided to sedate you.”

Bruce frowned. “Don’t remember that,” he rasped.

Clark smiled. “It was after we brought you back to the cave. I’ve never seen anyone jackknife off a table like that. Your eyes were rolled all the way back in your head, and you still managed great aim. It took me and Victor to hold you long enough for Alfred to get close enough.”

Bruce shrugged, smirking just the tiniest bit. He drew in a deep breath, wincing at the pain skittering around his ribs. “The mission?” he asked carefully.

“Victor shut everything down, recalled the robots. No civilians were hurt, thanks to Barry. Mostly surface damage to the buildings, except one warehouse that was destroyed, but Alfred said it was slated for demolition, so win-win.”

Bruce nodded. “The car.”

Clark winced. “Totalled.”

“Completely?” Bruce said, disbelievingly.

“Alfred wants to give it a funeral before being melted.”

Bruce huffed a laugh. Alfred had always hated that model, hated the exposed sections, the chassis, the breaks, and, basically, anything to do with the wiring. He’ll be happy it’s dead, then. “Send my regrets, I won’t be attending the services.”

“Not with nineteen fractures you won’t, no,” Clark agreed. At Bruce’s expression, he listed them off. “Twelve in the ribs, three in your arm, and four in your collarbone.”

“Missed one,” Bruce said smugly.

“One in your cranium. Hairline, but still counts.”

Bruce lay stock-still. Skull fracture. Serious head injury, _resulting in increased pressure on the brain, life saving surgery needed right away... would never have gotten him to a hospital in time ... never mind the crushed ribs... my boy... too late....too late...too late..._

“Breathe with me, Bruce. In, hold, out. In, hold, out. You can do it, Bruce, just focus on me.”

_...never would have survived the two hour flight to the nearest doctors ... hemorrhaging blood ... skull damage over frontal cortex ... not breathing ... crushed ..._

“In, hold, out. Bruce, I’m here. I’m going to touch your hand. It’s going to be cold.”

 _... unconscious for at least two hours ... iceiceiceiceice ... too much pressure ... iceiceiceiceice ..._ Gasping, Bruce tried to pull his hand away from the frigid touch. Clark’s face swam into view above him.

“I’ve got you, just breathe. We need to breathe together, you can do that. In, hold, out. In, hold, out.” His face smiled. “That’s right, just like me, In, hold, out. You’re getting there, Bruce. It’s ok. You’re in the lake house. Just breathe.”

 _...stillness ... no laughter ... so cold ..._ Gotham had never chilled him so hard, her winters were never as harsh as those memories, crushing the warmth from his broken body even as the sun rose, and warm hands tried to bring him into the light with their tight embrace.


	3. Part 3: Saturday (is great)

_Always take a big bite  
It's such a gorgeous sight  
To see you eat in the middle of the night_

* * *

Clark knelt on the floor. It was the most comfortable tile floor he’d ever knelt on. Then again, he didn’t have a lot of experience with bathroom tiles, other than cleaning them. He’d never had to worry about sore knees after a night kneeling on them.

He had a feeling that Bruce could not say the same thing.

It was probably Barry’s fault they were there. Alfred never cooked anything off, Diana had only brought a beautiful wine, and Arthur’s contribution had been lightly seared by Alfred. Barry, though, had picked up something special on his way through Central City, homemade Greek baklava. A dessert with dark chocolate lightly swirled on top, the whole thing smelling like Christmas at the Post Office in Smallville.

Everyone had enjoyed it. Diana had thought the dish choice to be very thoughtful, which got Barry stammering again. Even Bruce had partaken a few diamonds, quite enjoying the crushed walnuts inside. Alfred had declined, but Arthur was more than happy to take extras.

Not even an hour later, Clark had found Bruce trembling in the large en suite to his bedroom. He’d been looking for the man, to let him know that Arthur had vanished, and Diana was getting ready to drive back to her hotel. Now, three hours later, he was helping prop the man up between dry heaves.

“Should we try to get you to bed?” Clark asked quietly.

Bruce didn’t answer for a minute. “Possibly,” he croaked. “Keep a bucket handy.”

Clark nodded. “Of course. I’m going to carry you, alright?”

Bruce shook his head, and then grimaced. “Toothbrush,” he said shakily.

Clark scanned the bare room, saw through a mirror a hidden shelf, and quickly got everything ready for Bruce. He let Bruce do it, though. He might be the only thing keeping Bruce upright now, but he left him with some dignity.

“Now bed,” Bruce ordered.

Alfred had already propped up enough pillows that Bruce could recline backwards. He’d also been kind enough to leave a metal basin on the end table, along with water bottles and tissue. Bruce looked slowly around as Clark stepped back from the bed. “Where’s Alfred?”

“He’s downstairs. He said he was going to check on the test results.”

Bruce frowned slowly. “Test results?” he asked.

Clark sat gently on the edge of the bed. “The blood work he took two hours ago. And he said he took the last pieces of the dessert downstairs, in case it was poisoned. I couldn’t taste anything wrong in it.” Clark laid a hand on Bruce’s leg, rubbing it soothingly.

“You were correct, Master Kent.” Alfred walked in, holding a syringe with an orange label. “There were not poisons, only allergens.” He rolled a sleeve up, and expertly found a vein. “Your blood work came back with high levels of antibodies. I’ve yet to establish which allergen is the culprit.”

“Epinephrine?” Bruce asked. “It was that high?”

Alfred gave Bruce a look. “How do you feel after three and a half hours of projectile vomiting, sir?”

Clark watched, amused, as Bruce looked contrite. “I could give you a rundown of the ingredients,” he offered, pulling Alfred’s attention away from Bruce.

“You have the recipe?”

Clark shook his head. “No, but I can taste them easily enough. I’m usually good to about 2 tsps worth of each ingredient.”

Alfred turned and stared at him. “Sir, do mean that from simply ingesting an item of food, you can tell the composition of that item?” At Clark’s nod, Alfred excused himself to fetch a serving.

Bruce was staring at him. “What?” Clark asked.

“Two teaspoons?”

Clark laughed. “Ma really liked this one chilli sauce at the fair when I was a kid. She bought it by the gallon. So, one day, she had me taste it and her version, and kept on changing ingredients to get it to match. By the end of the month, I could tell you what was in it, and how much, and sometimes how fresh it was.”

Bruce turned greenish at the thought. “She didn’t just ask for the recipe?”

“Nope. JennyAnn would never have given it to her, anyway.”

Alfred had returned by that point. “Here you are, sir” he said, handing over the plate, with a notepad and pen beside it.

Clark popped it in his mouth, and started tasting. He started to jot down ingredients even before chewing, taking his time.

_walnuts, honey, salt (pink), non salted butter, tap water, phyllo dough (flour, olive oil, salt, cornstarch, vinegar, ...) nutmeg, cassia powder, vanilla extract ~15% strength,_

“There,” Alfred announced, reading over Clark’s shoulder. “Cassia powder.”

Clark swallowed. “Really?”

“Often called Chinese Cinnamon, cheaper than Ceylon cinnamon, which is the true type. Come from two separate species. I’m highly allergic.” Bruce sighed and rubbed at one eye. “At least it’s not life threatening,” he muttered, rubbing harder.

Alfred pulled his hands away. “None of that, now, sir. You need to sleep.”

Despite being exhausted, Bruce still made to get up from the bed. “I’ll be fine.”

Alfred huffed a laugh. “In fourteen minutes you won’t even be conscious. If I may, sir?” he asked, gesturing. He took the offending confection away, closing the door softly.

Clark sighed, and reached over for Bruce’s hand. The skin was still clammy to touch. He rubbed the fingers gently. “You’ve not had a good month, have you?” he said quietly.

Bruce sighed. “Apparently not.” He leaned back against his pillows, eyes at half-mast. “I don’t like his cocktails.”

Clark tilted his head at the non-sequitur. “Come again?”

“Alfred’s.”

Clark nodded slowly. “I’m sorry?” he answered.

Bruce nodded, eyelids drooping. “Never figured them out, always knock me out. Cheating at debates.” His eyes slipped closed for a minute. Clark counted breathes, barely making it to seventy before Bruce stirred. “Not very gentleman like. Do what I say...” he trailed off again.

Clark nodded. “Alright then.” He restarted his count.

After three hundred seventy five, he slowly stood from the bedside, laid Bruce’s hand back down on his chest, and pulled the comforter up to his chin. He flicked off the bedside lamp, looking down at his sleeping face. “Sweet dreams, Bruce.”


	4. Part 4: Friday (I’m in Love)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: In the BvS version, we see Bruce and his parents coming out of a theatre showing Excalibur, which was released on April 10, 1981. Assuming that they did not take Bruce the opening weekend, and probably not the following weekend (it was Easter), that means that they likely went on the 25th or 26th. An evening show, and it was still headlining, means it was probably a weekend that they went on. Hence the April 25th date that’s been set.

_Monday you can hold your head_

_Tuesday, Wednesday, stay in bed_

_Or Thursday watch the walls instead_

* * *

Bruce awoke to find Alfred setting a pile of clean linens on the armchair. He watched, barely turning his head, as the older man continued to bring in fresh items, and his carrier of cleaners. Must be Sunday, Bruce thought. Windows Monday, floors Tuesday... Wednesday's job eluded his memory. _... Thursday doesn’t even start, it’s Friday –_

But it was Sunday, which meant linens, which meant it was ... it was ... and he was as immobile as they had been ... useless ...

"Master Bruce?"

"Hmm." He blinked a few times, willing the moisture away. Damn drugs, he thought. In the privacy of his own head, he was allowed to lie to himself. It was the only perk of not being surrounded by super powered clairvoyants.

Alfred sat down on the bedside, idly checking Bruce's pulse. "Master Clark has graciously agreed to help this morning. He'll be your porter while I tidy things up here."

"You don't have to, Alfred," Bruce mumbled. 

Alfred raised a brow, and started taking blood pressure readings. "On the contrary, sir, I must. If you could endeavor to refrain from bleeding on the sheets, then we may discuss a more suitable cleaning schedule." He typed in the readings to the pad on the bedside table. "Deeper breaths, my boy," he said kindly. "Your oxygen levels are dipping again."

Bruce managed a few deep breaths, and then winced. "Hurts," he whispered, eyes closed. 

Alfred huffed, brushing his fingers through Bruce's fringe. "Then you know the solution to that, Master Bruce. Don't get stabbed in the liver, and then take a dip in the East Gotham viaduct." The snark was a welcome sound – snark meant Alfred wasn’t as worried as he’d been last... two nights ago? When the wound had burst stitches and pus and nearly made him pass out just looking down at himself. (He’d saved passing out for Dr. Thompkins arrival, as she poked the remaining staples and more viscous fluid had discharged from the wound.)

Bruce shrugged minutely, drifting on the soft scents of fresh linens and British propriety. A few more beeps and the pressure cuff around his arm tightened, the cold head of the stethoscope under the vinyl. _... it’s just so I can listen to your heart beat, son, ... yes, but your blood comes from the heart all around you..._ Bruce sucked in a breath, shaking minutely as the pressure cuff abruptly collapsed. “One hundred thirty two, sixty five,” Alfred muttered under his breath. “I’m increasing your next dose of morphine.”

Bruce barely registered the cool flush in his vein from his next dose of antibiotics. Alfred deftly parted his sleeping shirt, unhooking various wire sensors. Immediately one monitor began wailing, only to stop as Alfred poked it yet again. "I'm turning that one into a target drone," the elderly gentleman muttered. He finished capping off the last of the IVs before reaching for the thick woven blankets. "Alright, let's get you upright."

Strong arms slipped under his shoulders and knees. Alfred, though, was turned away, packing up various and sundry medical equipment. He turned his head slowly, not at all sure he wanted to know who else got to see him in such a state. _Wait, Alfred mentioned ..._ Blearily, Bruce could make out the god-awful plaid shirt and coat. "Clark," he muttered. "Why are you always in plaid?"

"It's comfortable?" Clark answered, smiling. 

Alfred spread the thickest blanket across the bed. "It's revolting to fine sensibilities. Alright, put him down."

Clark laughed softly. "I happen to like it. It feels like warm hugs from Ma." He could not stop the fond smile peaking out as Alfred had deftly turned the older man into a Bat burrito. "Kinda like you are right now."

"Just without the eye strain," Alfred muttered. “He’s all yours, Master Clark. I’ll need 45 minutes on the safe side to have everything prepared.”

Clark nodded, and scooped Bruce back up again. “C’mon, let’s get you a change in scenery.” He stepped out of the bedroom, heading to the wide-open patio doors.

“It’s fine, just... just put me down... Clark, please,” he all but begged, burying his face in the warm plaid.

“Bruce?”

“Walking hurts. Alfred ... Alfred must have forgotten the morphine.”

Clark shook his head. “You take it in another 54 minutes.” Bruce groaned into his collar, not seeing Clark’s sad smile. “It’s ok, Bruce. We don’t have to walk, you know.” Slowly, he rose a few inches off the ground, and began to float down the path in the brushes. “I’ve got you.”

“I’d rather have morphine.”

Clark chuckled softly. “I won’t take offensive at that.” He looked down at the salt and pepper hair that was peeking out from the blankets. “You look adorable like this, you know that?”

“Hmph.” Bruce pulled his face away from the scratchy plaid. “Wher’r’e goin’?” he mumbled, eyes drifting shut. The slow floating sensation felt like being rocked in a car, over smooth roads and under deep forest branches. He almost missed Clark’s answer.

“Not far,” the other man said. “Just rest, Bruce. I’ve got you.”

The rocking, the silence, the faint wisps of fog from the lake, all of it conspired to lull Bruce into a pleasant fugue. Even the sharp pain from his stab wound had quieted to a dull, easily ignored throb. All he felt were the small, steady breaths from the man he lo... that he had something with. Something good, but he didn’t dare name it. Named things disappear, after all. He had learned that thirty years ago... thirty years...he pushed the feelings under the fog, focused on breathing, on the rocking, on Clark.

No footfalls heralded the change from smooth path to grass, to waist high grasses. Clark just floated a little higher, mindful of Bruce’s socked feet and the lingering morning dew. As such, it was far too easy to change direction, to head in the one place that he knew, deeply, Bruce did not want to go. The one place that he would have fought Clark tooth, claw, and glowing green rock to avoid, to avoid going anywhere near it.

Alfred had told the younger man over tea and whisky three nights before that Bruce didn’t have the option this year. They had sat in the main room, letting Dr. Thompkins have the room to herself and her patient. Gotham sewage had turned the wound. The good doctor was more than capable of keeping Bruce down while she drained, cleaned, and re-stitched the wound. 

Alfred was simply too old to do as he had done when Master Bruce was 14, with a broken ankle and enforced bed rest. “ _However well I may take of myself, Master Clark, the simple truth of the matter is that I am unable to carry a man who has nearly three stone on me. I can drag him from his car, and possibly haul his unconscious body onto a gurney, but a half-mile walk?”_ _He drank another shot of whisky quickly. His hands shook a little from exhaustion. It had been a long wait for Leslie to finish suturing the re-opened wound._

_“However,” Alfred had added with a serious stare, “there is someone that could, if he were so inclined to move closer in Master Bruce’s affections, perform such a feat.”_

_“I doubt he’d thank me for it, Alfred,” Clark had said, frowning into his own tumbler._

_“No, I doubt he would. But he would be grateful.”_

This morning, filled with fog and silence, hurt and melancholy, found Clark slowly making his way across an abandoned field of wildflowers, towards a lone structure. Half hidden by forest and wildness, it was quite clear that no one beside the two men ever came to visit the dead. A narrow path of footfalls marked the quickest route, no wider than a jackrabbit would use. Clark shifted his bundle slightly, freeing a few fingers for the doorknob.

“Clark?” The voice was small.

“I’m right here, Bruce.” He dipped his head as they slipped inside the mausoleum.

Bruce struggled to raise his head, eyes darting around them. “Clark, what are we doing here?” he said tightly.

“It’s April 25th, Bruce.”

The injured man started to tremble in Clark’s arms. “Clark, take me back.” His eyes were screwed shut against the world. “Take me back, Clark, now.”

Clark settled softly on the stone bench. "Bruce," he murmured. "Just breathe, Bruce, deep breaths. You don't want to pass out again." Slowly, he began to rub the tense back muscles. Taking several deep breaths, he waited until Bruce was more or less in sync with him. 

"Take me back," Bruce ordered. "I don't - don't need- Why did you bring me here?" His breath caught, as he asked plaintively, "Why, Clark?"

Clark held him closely, continuing deep breathing. "Alfred asked me to." He swallowed, and continued. "You're too badly hurt to come out yourself, Bruce, even with Alfred to lean on. It's going to be weeks until you can walk out here yourself."

Bruce buried his face into the thick blanket and plaid. "No," he whispered. "No, I can't. No, please, take me back."

Clark frowned. "Can't do what, Bruce?" At Bruce's violent headshake, Clark hushed him. "Shhh, it's okay. You don't have to do anything. Alfred brought the bouquets this morning, and tended to the nameplates. You're just here for you. Bruce, I know you always come, every year. This was the only way we could get you here."

Bruce was shaking in his arms, breathing short and harsh. Any words that might have been said were buried into the scruffy coat. Clark tried to pull Bruce's face away from the fabric, only to be met with firm refusal - and damp fingertips

"B, it's alright to mourn, to be upset. It's okay," he whispered. "It's just us, no cameras, no press, it's okay to cry or scream or rage or fall apart. Every time I go to Pa's head stone, I always tell him what's been happening, and I end up using at least two handkerchiefs and needing a slice of apple pie with Ma afterwards." He looked down; Bruce had sneaked a hand free of the blankets, and was holding onto the edge. 

Clark started to stroke the long fingers, mindful of the IV needle still in place, and avoiding bruises and lacerations alike. "Bruce, I'm here if you want to talk, I'm here if you want to sit in silence. It's what you need, and want, and I - I can't make it hurt less, but I'm here. Whatever you need from me." After a few minutes of silence, he began to talk softly, telling old stories of his Pa. He could throw this life buoy out to Bruce, something real to focus on, if the thoughts in his head were too much.

* * *

_It hurts so much._

_I don’t bring anyone to them, not even Alfred after a few years. Not Dick, not Jason. I just can’t. I can’t be here, and be the one who lived, and be Bruce Wayne at the same time. Too many masks, too many layers. I get lost between them, and I can’t get free. No one deserves to be forced to put me back together again. It’s not their problem. And I don’t know how to be both, and not crack apart._

_It hurts so much, and I can’t make it stop. Clark’s arms are strong, and solid, and I know he’ll never let me fall. But today... today they aren’t a solar powered alien holding me. They feel... they feel..._

_No._

_I can’t. Please, don’t make that wall collapse. Don’t make those feelings fall into daylight. Feelings get you killed. And worse, they get other people killed along side you. Feelings lead to misery, and death and destruction and it’s my fault. My fault we were out that night, my fault that we caught a later show. Mother wanted me to go straight to bed, up far too late, Father laughing and saying Knights don’t have bedtimes. We took that alley, the car was parked just so, Jarvis had the night off. My fault..._

_The sound that rips from my chest isn’t human. It can’t be, I’m not human, I’m always less, less than a human, such a disappointment to my very human parents. I’m a monster than doesn’t deserve ... Another sound, higher, rips out again, and I can’t hold it in. The walls are falling. The pain is just too much. It just hurts too damn much._

_Clark has started to rock me, trying to help. Gentle movement, soft, tender...._

_Please, Clark, I try to say. Please take me back. I’m begging you, please, I can’t fall apart in front of you. You won’t like what you see. You’ll see how broken I am, how damaged, and you’ll leave. You’ll leave, and I will let you go, because no one deserves to deal with the broken being who walked out of that alley. I’m sorry, so sorry, please...._

_I don’t deserve to be held, and rocked, and soothed ... soothed with words as eloquent as Mother’s, reading poetry aloud, stories late at night ...._

_... held in arms that were just as strong..._

_... just as strong, as warm, as safe ..._

_... as Father’s were._

_The walls disintegrate around me._

* * *

The first howl felt like someone had punched Bruce in his open wound. Clark even found his vision flipping over to x-ray, to see where he had been hit. There were no new injuries, no stitches burst. A rib hadn’t shifted, piercing a lung. It was worse. It was caused by something that Clark couldn’t see, or fight, or defeat.

It was grief, wrapped in guilt, and tied in a neat ribbon of repression.

He held Bruce as tightly as he dared. The injured man barely gasped for breath before another howl tore out of him. All Clark could do was rock back and forth, whispering nonsense sentences. Once or twice, he had to remind Bruce to breathe. After every breathe held, another gut wrenching sound came forward.

All throughout, tears fell unnoticed down Clark’s face, mixing with Bruce’s. Both men kept their eyes closed, one out of respect, and the other to hide in the darkness that he thought was his ally. The darkness had just been there too long. And eventually, even the darkness fades against a new sunrise.

Eventually, Bruce’s sobs slowed. He could breathe, albeit harshly, between them. His shoulders slowly loosened under Clark’s arms. “Bruce,” Clark whispered, when the sobs had turned into minor hiccups.

Bruce didn’t answer, eyes half open, focused on the far wall.

“Let’s get you home, huh?” Clark whispered, slowly rising and straightening out.

“Closer,” the injured man asked quietly.

Clark nodded, and drifted until Bruce was level with his parent’s name stones. Holding him steady, Clark let go of Bruce’s hand. It shook as it reached out, fingertips just brushing the engraved names. They lingered on Thomas’s name, tracing the lettering with practiced grace. Slowly, Bruce drew his hand back under the blanket, and sighed raggedly into Clark’s chest. “Alright,” Bruce breathed, eyes dropping closed.

“Alright,” Clark agreed. He slowly floated out of the dark room, closing the door carefully behind him. “I’ve got you, Bruce.”

“I know,” Bruce whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we go! I hope you enjoyed this week or so of angst and hurt comfort and the boys being there for each other. Please leave a comment, even just a smilie face, in the comments below. Thank you, and thank you to the Fifth DCEU Exchange for another great year.

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: Did I search for half an hour for old cars that could recline their seats for a one liner? Why, yes, I did! Because, reasons. Did I leave my computer open and my 2.5 year old help finish Bruce’s moan? Yes, I did.


End file.
